"Was it in 1913?" he inquired. "Didn't you have a bright, varnished boat with a teak topstrake and a red standing lugsail? And you were about eight or nine then. You used to have your hair bobbed, and wore a white jersey and a scarlet stocking cap?"
"However did you know that?" asked Olive in astonishment.
"Because we had a yacht moored just above the red powder hulks. My father held an appointment at Keyham Dockyard, you see; and whenever he had a home billet he kept a yacht or boat of some sort. Sailing was his favourite pastime."
But Olive was paying scant heed to the description of Mostyn père as set forth by Mostyn fils. Her thoughts too were flying back to those halcyon days before the war.
"I believe I remember you," she said at length. "Weren't you on board a white yawl of about six tons, with a green boot-top and rather a high cabin top?"
"That was the Spindrift, my pater's yacht," declared Peter. "And——"
"And you were about ten or eleven, with a freckly face," pursued Miss Baird calmly. "You were a horrid little wretch in those days, because I distinctly remember you laughing at me when the halliard jammed and I couldn't get the sail either up or down."
"Guilty, Miss Baird," said Peter. "I apologize. Give me a chance to make amends and I'll be all over it."
"I will," agreed the girl. "You may take me for a sail in Bulonga Harbour; but you mustn't be selfish, like Mr. Preston and Mr. Anstey. You will let me take the tiller, won't you?"
Peter gave the required promise. He felt highly pleased with himself. Anstey was evidently in disfavour because he had underrated Olive's capabilities as a helmswoman. In addition, the Third Officer would be fairly busy while the West Barbican was in harbour, as the steelwork had to be taken out of the hold. Reminiscences of youth spent in the West Country, too, were mutual and sympathetic bonds between the Wireless Officer and the girl. No wonder he was feeling highly elated.